Secrets
by amegrace
Summary: When Matthew Williams is stabbed to death, the whole city is in shock. Who would kill an innocent nurse? But it soon becomes apparent that Matthew Williams knew secrets about everyone - including gang leaders, drug dealers and assassins. Secrets that people would kill for? Almost definitely.
1. Aftermath

**A/N: I never thought I'd write a dark, angsty fic, but here you go. In case the summary didn't make it obvious enough, here you go: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. I won't be doing much in the way of pairings unless they're necessary to the plot.**

**Just so you know, Vivette Bonnefoy is Monaco, and in my headcanon she's Francis's twin.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The news hit Alfred in the face when he opened the door and two police officers were standing on the porch.

_"We have some bad news regarding your brother."_

All the way to the hospital, he was praying that it wasn't Mattie, that everything would be okay, because Mattie was _Mattie_. Always there. Always dependable. The only thing in this godforsaken city Alfred could rely on. He sipped hot coffee and tried not to look at the policemen, because he knew the expressions on their faces would just make this worse; pity with a dash of condescension. Mattie would be in the hospital, but he'd be in his nurse's uniform, rushing around, helping patients, not lying in some foreign hospital bed with starched sheets and skin bleached of life; it was not possible that he could be dead.

All the way up to the ward, in a cold lift with an empty styrofoam cup in his hand he didn't realise was there, Alfred kept on not believing. It was not real. It was a dream. He glared at the security cameras wrathfully as he strode through the hall, sneakers squeaking on linoleum floors, hands shoved in pockets, and the cold smell of medicine invading his nose. Every nurse he passed, he checked if they were Mattie. He shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and rubbed his hands together; were hospitals supposed to be so cold? There had to be a mistake. Mattie was sitting at home, watching the ice hockey championships, or perhaps talking on the phone to Lukas or Tino, or going to Yekaterina's bakery to get himself a bun; anything but in a hospital bed, like the one behind the door in front of him.

His hand rested on the doorknob, and Alfred felt a sudden urge to knock. Ridiculous. He was Alfred F. Jones, and Alfred F. Jones did not knock, just as Matthew Williams did not die.

There he was, his quiet, shy, unassuming half-brother, still as a frozen pond in that hospital bed, eyes closed, glasses removed, nurses standing around with hands pressed to mouths, because they knew this man, they had worked with him for the past three years, and yet none of the nurses could possibly understand the grief that Alfred felt, seeing Mattie straight on his back with faded green sheets covering him.

"I'd like to have a moment with my brother," he said, voice not shaking one bit, and the nurses and policemen left the room. One girl burst into tears as she left; it was Bella Janssen. Alfred barely recognised her without her usual catlike smile, and he would only realise it was her later, because now he only had eyes for Matthew.

The door closed silently and it was only then that he allowed himself to approach the bed, trembling, laying a hand on Mattie's shoulder (it was freezing under his fingertips), and whispered into his ear, "Mattie? Are you okay?"

There was no response.

Alfred buried his face in his hands and began to sob, huge gasps of agony that wracked his whole body until he was sure his ribs would crack.

* * *

Arthur received the phone call at two in the morning, just as he was finding some warm clothes for Francis, who for reasons unbeknownst to him had gotten kicked out of his apartment and had stumbled into his place soaking wet and freezing. Francis was currently huddled on the couch in Arthur's thickest bathrobe, holding a cup of tea, and Arthur swore as he heard the phone, dropped the shirts he held and answered the call.

"What bloody time do you think this is? This is complete bollocks! I could have been bloody asleep! Who is this, anyway?"

Francis, shivering, snickered slightly.

"Alfred? A-Alfred, are you okay?" Arthur's voice changed completely. "_What?_ Jesus Christ... bloody... my God, Alfred, I'm so..."

Francis heard Arthur's voice crack and sat up straight.

"God, of course, I'll come over, yes of course I'll tell Francis... you sit tight, Alfred. Don't move. We'll be there. I-I have to go. Tell Francis. Y-yeah. Just wait there."

Francis heard the phone hang up, and watched as Arthur stumbled into the hallway, white as a sheet, blinking away - were those _tears_ in his eyes?

"Jesus..." Arthur murmured, clutching at the walls as he made his way to his favourite armchair. He sank down, burying his head in his hands, tousling his fingers through his hair.

"Arthur?" the Frenchman asked cautiously, standing up and moving toward him. "What did Alfred say? What's going on?"

"Bloody hell," whispered Arthur, raising his head. With a shock, Francis saw tears streaming down his face. "I can't believe it... Francis, I'm so, so sorry..."

"_Mon dieu_, what is it?"

"Alfred called from the hospital. Matthew... Matthew's been stabbed."

"_Non_..." Francis whispered. It couldn't be... his little _Mathieu_ couldn't possibly be...

"Francis, Matthew's dead."

And then Francis was howling, falling to his knees, head in Arthur's lap, and keening with grief. Matthew had been like a brother to him - no, a _son_ to him. He clutched Arthur's knees and sobbed, unbelieving, for who in God's name would stab Matthew? There was some deep shit in this town (and Francis knew more than most would think), but Matthew - it had to be a mistake, he couldn't be dead. It wasn't true. He couldn't believe it. On his head, he felt something moist and warm, and he knew Arthur was crying too.

"We have to go to the hospital," he heard Arthur whisper, and he knew the man was trying to focus on something, anything to keep the pain away. "Alfred wants us there, they're not going to let us see the body for much longer, Francis, we have to..."

His voice trailed away into Francis's hair, and they stayed like that, for a while.

* * *

The news travelled to Vash Zwingli as he sat in his office, talking on the phone. His secretary, Vivette, had come rushing in. Said it was urgent, and gave him a post-it note. On the note, in her familiar curly handwriting, were the words.

_Matthew Williams has been murdered._

"Shit."

It wasn't unusual for murders to occur, for the city had one of the highest crime rates in the country, but they were usually amongst gang members, and Vash and the police force had learned to leave the gangs mostly alone, provided the drug dealings and murders and kidnappings stayed separate from the general law-abiding populace. But Matthew Williams was a nurse. A goddamn _nurse_, who was generally loved by all, and he had comforted Lili when she had her tonsils taken out, and he played for the city's ice hockey team, and he was nothing like his half-brother (thank God for that, one Alfred Jones was enough).

Matthew Williams murdered. Well, this changed everything.

Vash hung up on the man (he had never got his name, but he sounded Eastern European - Russian, perhaps?), picked up the note and scanned it again to make sure he hadn't misread it. It was two in the morning, after all. "Vivette!" he barked, and he heard the familiar clack of her heels as she entered the room.

"Yes, Mr. Zwingli?"

"Who told you this?"

"Lars Janssen."

Janssen? The name rang a bell.

"His sister was a colleague of Matthew's," Vivette continued. "She's devastated. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll need to tell my brother. I knew Matthew rather well. When his mother died, and his father started drinking, Francis and I took care of him and Alfred."

"I'm sorry, Vivette. I had no idea." Vash sounded awkward, and the sympathy sounded forced, he knew, but he'd never really dealt with anything like this before. "It's well past your hours, anyway. Please, go home and rest."

Vivette nodded crisply, and left the room.

Vash massaged his temples and groaned. There'd be a full police investigation, no doubt, and they'd use the city's money, and there was nothing that he, the mayor, could do anything about it. As much as he felt pity for the man, they couldn't afford this. _You'll have to make it work, Vash_, a little voice told him, and he knew it was true.

Still. Who would ever want to murder _Matthew Williams?_

* * *

Feliciano put down the phone and looked at his brother, shaking.

"_Fratello_," he said, "Matthew Williams was murdered last night."

It was nine o'clock, and Lovino was late enough to work as it was, but Antonio would surely forgive him for this.

"Are you _fucking kidding me?_" he cried. "Matthew fucking _Williams_? Feliciano, he was a nurse, for Christ's sake! Everyone liked him! He was a _nice guy!_ Who the _fuck_ told you this?"

Feliciano was white as a sheet, trembling like a leaf. "Ludwig,' he said quickly.

"Oh, _Ludwig?_ Your potato bastard boyfriend? Well, you can't trust anything he says, can you? Matthew Williams isn't dead. You've got it wrong. I'm going to go to work, and someone there will know the truth. Dead, my arse." He swept out the apartment, the door slamming in his brother's shocked face.

All the way to the office, Lovino couldn't bring himself to believe it. The man was arguably the nicest person in the city, and there weren't many nice people left. Williams was a good guy. He was sweet to all his patients, organised charity events, paid his taxes, kept his idiot brother under control, never judged anyone. Lovino, although he hadn't known him well (but, said a little voice in his head, Matthew Williams knew _him_ very well), felt a _connection_ to the man. He hadn't deserved to die. He felt bad for yelling at Feliciano, but that stupid potato hulk of a boyfriend was wrong. Williams could not be dead.

Lovino drove into the underground carpark and took the lift up to the seventh floor, where he walked in to see a bunch of his colleagues standing around with mugs of coffee in their hands and shock smoothed onto their faces. He was surprised to see his boss standing with them. Antonio turned around and smiled weakly at the younger man, and beckoned him over. Lovino had his excuse for being late ready, but Antonio began to talk before he could say anything.

"I can guess why you're late, Lovi, and it's okay," he said in his lilting Spanish accent. "It's awful, isn't it? Lars's sister worked at the hospital with him and was on duty when they brought him in... she's in shock..."

"It's true?" asked Lovino without any of his usual snark. "Williams _is_ dead?"

Antonio nodded. 'Francis told me, and he saw the body."

"He _saw the body?_ It was _Francis?_"

"No, silly Lovi," said his boss, smiling a little. "He was in the hospital with Alfred and Arthur."

Lovino hated that moron Alfred with a passion, but he felt a slight pity for the man. After all, if Alfred had loved anyone beside himself, it had been his half-brother (even if the idiot had forgotten about him so often it had become a habit).

Matthew Williams dead. Well, this changed everything. He made a mental note to call Yao and warn him.

* * *

Ivan Braginsky stared at Natalia. "_What?_"

"Matthew Williams is dead," she repeated. "Someone stabbed him at ten-thirty last night."

"Of all the..." he muttered, pacing up and down the hall. Natalia watched him hungrily, noting his striking figure, the scarf fluttering behind him, his violet eyes practically glowing in the half-light. How she longed for that muscular, lean body, his dashing cheekbones, skin pale as snow sliding over hers...

"Is it important, Brother?" she asked, snapping out of her daydream. _Tread carefully, Natalia. He doesn't know what you know._

"It changes a lot of things," he murmured distractedly. "Who knows this?"

"Probably half the city at this rate. Everyone liked him. By all accounts, he was a nice man."

"I don't need estimates, I need names!" he barked. "Everyone who matters. Adnan, Janssen, Wang, all their associates, find out what they know."

"Yes, Brother," she said, allowing her gaze to wander over his powerful shoulders, just to let him know how much she loved him, and then she turned her back and swiftly walked to the door. As she opened it, the wind made its way inside, ruffling her dress and causing the hem of Ivan's coat to sway in the breeze. Natalia turned, and locked her eyes on his. "But Brother," she said, "what do _you_ know?"

And then she was gone into the wind and Ivan was left to close the door and stew on his thoughts.

* * *

Alfred, Francis and Arthur were picked up by Vivette, who had taken one look at the three of them and bundled them into her Rolls, stuffing steaming cups of hot chocolate into their hands, with napkins to wipe the tears and smudges of cocoa away. Francis didn't doubt that she was just as devastated as they were, and marvelled at his twin's ability to hide her emotions. Alfred huddled between the older men in the backseat, head lying limply on Arthur's shoulder. He had cried so much that tears wouldn't come to his eyes anymore.

Arthur gulped as he spoke to Vivette, who did tend to give off an intimidating aura. "We should go to Matthew's," he said, quietly. "To pay our respects. The police will take over the place soon, if they haven't alr-"

"Yes," said Vivette quietly. "I understand." Raindrops reflected in her glasses as she turned off the main road and down Maple Avenue, where, true to its name, maple trees lined the streets. The leaves had nearly all fallen from the majestic trees, swept into piles on the side of the road, wet and miserable in the first month of winter. Matthew's house was near the end of the street, the familiar reddish bricks standing strong. _Stronger than Matthew_, thought Alfred.

"Wait," said Francis. "What's that?"

As Vivette pulled into the driveway, they saw the entire front porch covered in colour. Cards, flowers - _hundreds_ of flowers, by the look of it - even a large stuffed polar bear. Various people, men, women and children, putting down more and more bouquets.

The four of them got out of the car, stunned by the outpouring of love. One woman came up to them, patting Alfred's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Matthew was a wonderful man." More people came up to them, words of sympathy pouring from their lips, their hearts. Kisses pressed to cheeks by grieving children. Lilies, roses, poppies, daisies, sunflowers, all arranged in bouquets, placed on the porch.

'They loved him," whispered Alfred, a smile tracing his lips. "So many people loved him."

And Vivette, famed for never showing emotion, threaded her fingers through his and allowed a tear to trickle below her glasses.


	2. Accusations

**A/N: Sorry about the break! I would have published this last Thursday, but obviously it was Christmas, so now I'm finishing this at 4am on a Friday morning.**

**Things heat up a little this chapter... so enjoy!**

* * *

"What do you fucking mean?" shouts Alfred. "He's my fucking brother! I want him to be remembered!"

The policeman lowered his head, eyes filled with sadness. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones," he said, and his German accent only made Alfred want to punch him more. "But you have to understand-"

"I don't have to understand anything! For God's sake, can't you give him a bit of fucking _dignity_ and let him have a funeral?"

Arthur swallowed. "Alfred," he said, voice shaking. "Alfred, it's so we can catch whoever did this, we'll have a funeral later, that's all, we-"

"It's not fair," the American spat. "It's not fucking fair."

In all honesty, Francis felt sorry for the policeman. It was Ludwig Beilschmidt, his best friend's younger brother, and the poor man looked terrified of the grief-stricken Alfred. "It's not Officer Beilschmidt's fault," he murmured huskily. "Alfred, we should go."

"Yeah," said Alfred, standing up. The whites of his eyes were too wide for Arthur's liking. "I'm going. This is bullshit, you hear me? Mattie deserves respect."

Ludwig took a deep breath. "Gentlemen, I'm so sorry, but we'll need to ask you some questions while you're here."

Alfred, hand on the doorknob, spun around, eyes livid, and Arthur stared at Ludwig in disbelief. "You seriously believe we're responsible for this? That we commited this - this _atrocity?_"

"I am not implying anything," Ludwig said calmly. "We simply need to establish a few facts about the night of Matthew's death. The sooner we get this done, the better." He paused. "The sooner we get this done, the closer we are to finding the killer. Closer to holding Matthew's funeral."

Alfred slumped, swaying dangerously, and Francis dashed to support him.

"Ask away," said the Frenchman, putting Alfred into a chair. "But make it quick, please. I'm meeting my sister soon."

Ludwig nodded. "Alright. Mr. Jones, where were you between nine-thirty and eleven pm on Tuesday night?"

"I was at home," murmured Alfred. "I was watching a movie."

"Can anyone confirm your alibi?"

Arthur noticed tears in the young man's eyes. "I - I dunno," he croaked. "Maybe... God, I'm not sure. I'll - I'll have to check. I don't think so."

"That's alright,' Ludwig said, trying to be gentle. "The police officers arrived early in the morning, am I correct?"

"Yeah, at like, one, I think. I was getting ready for bed."

"Right," said the policeman. "Mr. Bonnefoy, what about you? Between nine-thirty and eleven?"

Francis cast his mind back. "I was out drinking," he said slowly. "I was with Gil and Toni."

"Full names, please?"

"_Mon dieu_, Ludwig, you know who I'm talking about! We were at this bar on the west end of town, and we were getting rather... rowdy, and I decided to talk to a charming young lady at maybe... I don't know, ten? We became rather friendly and we decided to leave the bar, because your older brother was rather embarrassing."

Ludwig grimaced, but tried to stay professional. "What happened next?"

"We were walking down the street, chatting, when all of a sudden, a man came out of nowhere and tried to take the lovely lady away from me. He said something about... business? I don't really know... but she seemed rather exasperated, and left with him. This was maybe at ten-thirty? I'm not sure. I wasn't in any mood to go back to the bar, so I decided to go home. However, I had no money, so I could not take a taxi or a bus."

"Typical," muttered Arthur.

"What did you do, Mr. Bonnefoy?" asked Ludwig, writing in shorthand on a little notepad.

"Well, I walked home."

"You walked home?" asked Ludwig incredulously. "Mr. Bonnefoy, if you were in the west end of the city, it would have taken you hours to walk back home."

"Well, when I say I walked home... I did not go home, exactly. I was a few blocks away from home when it started raining, absolutely _pouring_ down. I was closer to dear Arthur, so I came to his house."

"At what time?"

"Just before two," interjected Arthur. "I was on the verge of going to bed, when the frog stumbled in looking like a drowned rat."

Ludwig sighed. "Right," he said, making a note. "When you met your, uh, _lovely lady_, did you catch her name?"

"But of course," said Francis with the ghost of a smile. "Her name was Mei."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Mei Xiao? Asian, about nineteen?"

"You know her?" replied Francis.

Arthur went a dull shade of pink. "Vaguely," he muttered, scratching his ear. "She's very pretty."

"_Oui_," agreed Francis wistfully. "If only that man hadn't swooped down and stolen her away..."

"Did you find out _his_ name?" enquired Ludwig.

"_Non_, but he was Asian as well... rather thick eyebrows, much like yours, my dear Arthur... but of course, no one's eyebrows could resemble caterpillars as well as yours do."

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Arthur.

"Both of you, can it!" Alfred shouted. "It's not the time to insult each other, it's the time to find out who had the fucking gall to murder my brother!'

"Quite r-right, although that's not e-exactly the way I'd word it," stammered Ludwig. "Thank you, Mr. Bonnefoy. Uh, Mr. Kirkland, where were you between-"

"Nine-thirty and eleven?" interrupted Arthur. "I was coming home from a football match in Embrook, a rather long drive away."

"Any alibi?"

"I-I could show you my ticket to the game," said Arthur, unusually flustered.

"I'm afraid I need more than that, Mr. Kirkland. What game was it?"

"Uh... Weston Whales vs. Brooksvale Bears."

Ludwig's eyebrows raised. "I happened to be at the game myself," he said casually. "A rather satisfying outcome for the Bears, was it not?"

"Ah, y-yes," said Arthur awkwardly.

"The game finished at a quarter to nine, Mr. Kirkland. If your house is just a few blocks away from Francis, it would have taken you an hour to return, for as I recall, the traffic was not too heavy. Allowing for fifteen minutes of getting out of the stadium and finding your car, you would have been home at ten o'clock."

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

"Where were you for the next hour?"

"I was, well, I went to grab a bite to eat. I took a bus to the city center and went to, er, the bakery owned by the Braginsky sister. The older one. I had a pie. It was rather delicious, really."

"Did you meet anyone while you were there?"

A sudden silence fell throughout the room, as through a blanket had replaced the air. Ludwig gazed at Arthur, face perfecty straight. Francis quirked an eyebrow. Even Alfred, head in his hands, turned to see his friend's face. Arthur himself seemed to be gulping for air. A fish out of water.

"It's a simple question, Mr. Kirkland. Did you or did you not meet anyone at Yekaterina Braginskaya's bakery?"

"Ah, Yekaterina, that's her name. Of course. Right, ah, no. I-I was alone."

Alfred stared at Arthur, a little suspicion crawling into his gaze.

"I was alone, Officer."

"Right. You are free to go. May I say, I am so sorry for your loss. Matthew Williams was a wonderful man."

"Yeah," said Alfred hoarsely. "We know."

Francis opened the door for the two men, waved goodbye to Ludwig and left behind them. Alfred strode ahead, walking faster and faster, desperate to get out of the police station. Francis caught up to Arthur.

"What the hell is going on, _Sourcils?_" he hissed. "I've known you nearly all my life, and you were lying! To a police officer!"

"Like you haven't lied to one yourself, frog," Arthur spat.

"I didn't lie when someone was _dead!_ I think finding _Mathieu's_ killer is far more important than your petty little pride!"

"Look, Francis," Arthur said, voice hard and angry. "I don't care if you believe me or not, but listen to me now. I was alone when on my way to the bakery. I was alone when I ate at the bakery. I was alone when I came home from the bakery. I did not meet anyone that night. I would have thought you, of all people, would believe me."

"Arth-"

"I was fucking _alone_, do you understand me?"

And with that, Arthur stormed away from Francis, throwing open the police doors and striding out into the daylight.

* * *

Mathias Køhler arrived home from band practice slightly drunk and in a towering rage. Flinging open the door, gripping a pair of drumsticks, eyes bloodshot, he burst into the living room, and was surprisingly unsurprised to find Lukas Bondevik curled up in his armchair, reading a paper.

"Lukas," he said, trying to keep the slur out of his voice, "guess who is dead."

"Matthew Williams," said Lukas, eyes never leaving the paper.

"The whole city knows," interjected a familiar voice. Mathias turned around to see Lukas's younger brother Emil sitting awkwardly at the table. Mathias let out an explosive sigh, slightly disappointed that his big news of the day had been spoiled.

"How come _I_ didn't know?" he demanded petulantly. "It happened Tuesday night, and it's - what day is it, Luk-"

"Thursday," said Lukas, sounding rather bored.

"_Thursday_," nodded Mathias. "A day and a half ago, Matthew Williams was stabbed and I find out _now?_"

Lukas shrugged and helped himself to the remnants of a half-eaten chocolate bar lying forlornly on the coffee table.

"Who do you think did it?" asked Emil, blinking.

"Dunno," said his brother. "But if it's a stabbing, maybe he got himself mixed up in all that gang warfare shit."

"Williams?" exclaimed Mathias. "He's a nurse? What would he have to do with all of that?"

Lukas shrugged. "Like I said, I dunno."

"Do Tino and Berwald-"

"Yes, I told them."

This habit of interrupting was beginning to irritate Mathias. He kicked off his shoes and flopped on the couch, getting his feet as close to Lukas's face as possible. "I feel like shit," he muttered, putting a pillow over his face.

"That's funny," said Lukas dryly. "You have an uncanny resemblance to human faeces."

"Fuck off."

"I might as well," he said, standing up and folding up the newspaper. "I've got a meeting with Vash Zwingli."

"_Zwingli?_ As in the mayor?"

"Something about a job. I might as well see him. Coming, Emil?"

"Yeah," muttered the young man moodily. "See you, Mat."

"Bye Emil," came the response from under the pillow. "Bye fuckface."

"Lovely seeing you as well," replied Lukas calmly, opening the door for his brother.

The door swung shut and Mathias was left in a well of bewilderment.

* * *

Lili Zwingli picked up the phone and recognised the voice immediately.

"I thought I told you not to call this number," she whispered, eyes darting around in fear. She smoothed the hem of her dress and prayed her big bruder was asleep or out or somewhere where he couldn't hear her. "Do you have it?"

The answer was so horrific than she nearly dropped the phone.

Oh no. Oh _no_. Gott in Himmel, what had she been thinking? Big bruder would be furious if he even found out it was missing. The betrayal he would feel if he found it out it was her who had taken it! When their mother died, he had given her a hug, a rare occurence, and he had said, "Lili Zwingli, it's time for you to step up and represent the family." And she would never, ever do anything to jeopardise the family, or make her brother look bad, and she had really only done what she did to _protect_ big bruder - No. There was no excuse for her actions. She needed to take responsibility. That's what big bruder always said. "Lili, I wouldn't be mayor if I didn't take responsibility for myself."

Lili hung up the phone slowly, cursing the idiot on the other line - cursing in her head, of course. She would never actually swear out loud. That was unladylike, and she was a representative of the Zwingli family. Or was she? Could she be considered to be a Zwingli now? What she had done was so unforgivable, so repulsive, she shuddered to think she ever had the _nerve_ to do it.

Oh, what was she _thinking?_ Her head was jumbled up with fear. She peered out of the window. Big bruder's car was gone. She suddenly felt very small and very alone. She was still in high school, after all. She wasn't an adult, and in this moment, she wished she had someone to talk to, someone to rely on. Someone like big bruder who could solve all her problems. She considered calling Elizaveta, but ruled against it on the grounds that Elizaveta had enough troubles of her own, what with the divorce. Who else was there to call? Her only friend her age was an idiot who had landed her in the worst predicament she could have ever forseen - well, technically it was her own fault for giving him the damn thing, but you'd think he'd at least be _careful_. Lili pursed her lips, trying to think of someone, _anyone_ who could help her.

And terrifyingly, there was no one.

_Lili, you have to do something._ Somehow, she knew the consequences were huger than ever before, the stakes higher than she could imagine. After all, the Williams death was causing ripples throughout the city, and more importantly, throughout the gangs. If she didn't act now, she was placing her bruder and herself in danger.

"Right," she said to herself. "I'm going to get it back. I'm going to do this."

She picked up the phone and dialed a number, eyes hard, because today was the day Lili Zwingli stepped up. Took responsibility.

* * *

Michelle lay back in bed. Vivette was long since gone, working as a secretary for the mayor, and Michelle was warm and tired and filled with a strange sensation all over. Her fingers tangled in silk sheets, cool and soft over her naked body.

Her phone buzzed and Michelle leaned over to get it, still revelling in the simple pleasure that silken sheets and sweet perfume and the world's best lover could give - well, not exactly _simple_ pleasures, but they were delectable ones, that was for sure. She looked at the caller. Damn, not Vivette. It was a private number. She pressed the little green button and liften the phone to her ear, still smiling at the sensation of the sheets. "Hello?"

_"I know your secret."_

Michelle's stomach lurched at and sat bolt upright, pleasures forgotten. Cold fear curdled in her gut. "H-Hello? Who is this?"

_"Don't play games with me. I know your dirty little secret."_

If it was _him_... but no, it couldn't be. She'd erased every trace, hadn't she? Travelled across half the world to escape his clutches, hadn't she? "What do you want?" she asked softly, in that hard, defiant voice she hadn't used for months, a voice she'd only just begun to forget.

_"I'm just letting you know. Watch your back."_

Well, what was he? Friend or foe? The voice was unfamiliar, but Michelle knew the caller could be using a program to disguise any accents. It didn't seem like _him_. Who else had known? Matthew, obviously, but he would never-

Would he?

She bit down so hard on her lip it drew blood. Tears were running down her face. "Whoever you are, whoever this is... _leave me alone_. I-I have influence, I'll find out who you are. Don't contact me again, you understand?"

There was no reply?

"H-h-hello?"

Shit shit shit _shit shit_...

There was a click on the other end of the line._ "I think, Ms. Sesel, that you'll keep your mouth shut. Unless of course, you want us to contact him."_

Jesus fucking Christ, they knew. They knew him. He'd found her. She could not go back to that life, that horror she'd endured for years. _Play it cool, Michelle._ "Who are you talking about?"

_"I think you know him very well indeed. After all, he ow-"_

She hung up, sobbing.

"NO!"

_Why_ was this happening? Surely he didn't want her that bad?

And the betrayer was, had to be...

"Matthew, _why?_"

She collapsed onto the pillows, crying so hard she thought that her very sanity was slipping out with the tears.

* * *

Yao threaded his fingers together. "And you're telling me you don't know anything?"

His younger brother shook his head. "I swear I don't."

Yao Wang stood up, eyes dark and unreadable. "Jia Long-"

"My name is _Leon_."

He sighed. "Why do you insist on disregarding your heritage?"

"Maybe I don't live in the old world anymore."

"Jia Long, Matthew Williams knew some things about me. He knew some things about Mei, and I'd be very surprised if he didn't know anything about you. My contacts have just told me that Francis Bonnefoy has told the police he saw you taking Mei away for 'business'."

"Francis Bonnefoy doesn't have a clue who I am."

Yao nodded. "He gave a brief description of you, and they'll have your name within the next few days."

"Yao, _it wasn't me!_ I didn't do it!"

His brother folded his arms. 'Prove it."

Leon gaped. "What?"

"Convince me that you and your cousin had nothing to do with the death of Matthew Williams, and I'll let you off the hook."

"B-but all I can do is give you my word!"

Yao shook his head. "Not good enough, little brother."

"Have you talked to Mei?"

"Yes, and she's said roughly the same things as you. Personally, I'm rather angry that she was even with Bonnefoy in the first place, but she's young, and I think we are all aware of how, ah, charming he can be. However, this is neither the place nor the time."

"Even if I had killed Williams -which I haven't! - why would you care? If he knew stuff about you, wouldn't you be glad he's gone?"

"It's true, I disliked Matthew Williams. He was too close to Kirkland, obviously, and I doubt he was as innocent as they say he was. He was very... _persuasive_. Made you say things you didn't mean to. However, I had no wish to see him dead. He wasn't important enough, and stabbing's a bad way to go."

Leon sighed. "Fine, whatever. I did not kill Matthew Williams. Can I go now?"

Yao massaged his temples. "Get out of my sight."

His brother's relief was tangible in the air immediately, and he left Yao's study.

Well, one good thing would come out of this, thought Yao. This was a golden opportunity to pin the blame on Arthur Kirkland for once and for all. He smiled. That arrogant little Brit had gotten away with too much for too long. He could picture the headlines now: 'Arthur Kirkland Brutally Murders Innocent Nurse'. Ahhh.

Revenge would be sweet.

* * *

**Who do you think the culprit is? (I haven't introduced all the characters yet, so it could be someone unknown - or not...)**


	3. Arrangements

**A/N: I'm _so_ sorry I updated this late, but I was on holiday in Inverloch (a very wild, beautiful seaside town in south-east Gippsland) and I had no internet. I promise I'll update more regularly from now on!**

* * *

Natalia strode into her sister's bakery, stopped in the middle and glared at everyone.

As expected, they filed out nervously.

Yekaterina was behind the counter, in an apron that barely stretched over her chest, flour streaked over her hands and cheeks. "Tasha," she reproved her younger sister. "They were _customers!_"

Natalia ignored the comment. "Have you heard?" she demanded.

Yekaterina gave a single, ragged sigh, closed her eyes, and nodded. "Matthew Williams is dead," she recited. "Tasha, _I know_. Everyone knows. Tell me something else."

Natalia cocked her head. "Why? Why don't you want to talk about it?"

"Because it's horrible. And you and Vanya know something about it, probably, or were involved somehow. The less I know, the happier I'll be."

Natalia loved her sister (although not the way she loved Ivan; the soul-wrenching, heart-piercing way she loved Ivan was _nothing_ like any human had ever felt before), but she had to say it: Yekaterina was a baby. A crybaby, a wimp; if Ivan hadn't bought her the bakery, she never would have had the initiative to start a business. Yekaterina couldn't stomach the thought of the family business, she couldn't even look at a gun without flinching, all she'd ever done was bake bread and knit things, and in short, Natalia thought her useless.

However, Natalia had come here to fill her sister in on the facts and have Yekaterina do her a little favour in return, so she kept herself from rolling her eyes and nodded curtly. "Shall we go upstairs, sister?"

Yekaterina nodded, untying her apron and quickly walking to the door. She turned the sign to 'Closed' and locked the door with a key taken from her impressive bust: she then turned and looked nervously at her little sister and extended an arm to a door on the left of the counter, which Natalia knew opened to a flight of stairs that led to her sister's cosy apartment. As they walked up the stairs, Natalia tried to analyse her sister's behaviour. Yekaterina was different today; usually she was all smiles and hugs and _"Here, darling Tasha, I just baked some bread, would you like some?"_; but now she was twitchy and jumpy and her eyes seemed sad. Natalia tried to think why. Unfortunately, she couldn't for the life of her think of an event in Yekaterina's simple, happy life that would cause her to act this way, so she merely filed the observations away in her mind and sat down on the couch in Yekaterina's apartment.

Her sister went straight to the kettle to make a cup of tea. From where she stood, she attempted to make small talk. "Have you seen Liz lately?" she asked nervously. "I'm sure she'd love to see you. She's very upset about the divorce."

Natalia ignored this and got straight to the point.

"Matthew Williams died at ten-thirty on Tuesday night. He was stabbed eight times with a knife and about three of the wounds would have been fatal."

Natalia watched Yekaterina recoil in horror. It was rather interesting, watching her sister blink like that and her mouth stretch out and a huge shudder go through her body. Encouraged by this reaction, Natalia continued. "We don't know who did it. It certainly isn't us. Brother has sent me to find out who did it, because it would be very easy for someone to pin the blame on us."

"On you?" asked Yekaterina, pressing a hand to her mouth. "You mean, the police will think you and Vanya are responsible?"

"Possibly."

"Tasha, what have you _done?_"

"Business is being conducted as usual. We may have made some... arrangements, but we hold all the power there. Unfortunately, we don't have enough influence in the police force to keep us out of the whole Williams business. Wang has a huge network of police contacts, so Brother is negotiating with him to make sure our business is not disturbed."

Yekaterina poured boiling water into two mugs and shook her head back and forth. "Why are you telling me this? I don't want to know."

"Because there's something Brother would like you to do for us."

There was a sudden stillness in the apartment. Natalia peered at her sister, who busied herself with dunking teabags in the mugs. "Tasha..."

Natalia had fully expected this.

"It's the least you can do for Brother," she said calmly, as Yekaterina began to sweat. "After all, he has bought you this bakery. He sends you money every month to support you. He keeps you safe and protected."

"V-Vanya wouldn't do this to me. If I wasn't prepared... he wouldn't make me do this..."

"He could withdraw his support."

"Tasha, please... I don't like what you do. I hate the business. I have done everything I could to stay out of it, because it frightens me and I'm not bloodthirsty like you. I love you, Tasha, and I love Vanya, but I do not love your work, if you insist on calling it that."

"It's really very simple, sister. All you have to do is get information from the customers. I want to know what they know."

Yekaterina blinked. "You don't want me to smuggle -"

"No. I want you to spy on those who come to your bakery and report back to me. If you must, talk to them yourself. Men like you. They like your breasts and smile. Be friendly and make them talk."

"Do you have to be so vulgar -"

"You will make them talk."

Yekaterina gulped and gave a little sigh. She lowered her eyes. "I'll do my best, Tasha."

Natalia flashed a rare smile. "Thank you, sister. Brother will be so pleased." She adjusted the bow in her platinum blonde hair. "Now, how about that tea?"

* * *

"What happened?" he asked.

She was standing in the kitchen, hands curled around a mug of coffee, her back to him. Long hair tied back messily, an old T-shirt and jeans covered in dust (how had so much accumulated over the years?), swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet. "What did happen? What are you talking about?"

_Damn it all_, he berated himself. _Why did you have to bring this up?_ He was a fool, a stupid, narcissistic fool, and yet he couldn't see how this had come to be a reality.

"Us," he said quietly. "Why are we _this? _What happened to us?"

He knew exactly what she was going to say. It came out just as he knew it would, her voice strained and soft, exhaustion in every syllable.

"There is no 'us' anymore, Roderich."

Everything was falling into place exactly as he expected, and he couldn't stand it. Elizaveta's boxes stacked messily outside the front door, Elizaveta's clothes removed from her half of the closet, Elizaveta's face turned away from his as if she couldn't bear to look at him anymore. As if he was vile, disgusting, low. He couldn't bear this hell much longer, and yet he had lived in a valley of cold, one-word sentences and loveless nights for a year now.

"You know what?" she said suddenly. "It doesn't feel real. All of this, even all those fights that never happened because you wouldn't speak to me, and all the things I broke, and even the way we made a mockery of marriage... Roderich, I didn't think I'd divorce you. I tried to put off moving out because I didn't think we'd actually have the guts to get a divorce."

He didn't know what to say. "Eliza..."

"No," she said, and he knew she was smiling a little, the way she did when she was hurt, and sad, and lonely. "It's over now."

He didn't know whether to cry or feel relieved.

There was a knock at the door, and all he could bring himself to say was, "That'll be the moving people."

She put down the mug and turned to face him. Her eyes were not red, and her face was perfectly composed. He could see her right fist clench and shake, the only outward sign of her pain. "I'll get the door."

The boxes were taken out quickly enough, and Elizaveta's furniture was moved in about half an hour. Time seemed to run very slowly and very fast all at once; he felt the air thicken around him. It was as if Elizaveta and he were moving in liquid. Her hair swimming behind her, she turned to face him, and there was a little patch of agony on her cheek.

"I guess this is goodbye," she said slowly, and before he could answer her, the door had shut gently and he could hear the rumble of the truck moving out of the driveway, followed by Elizaveta's little Mazda 3.

Only that night, when he looked in the mirror, did he realise how much he cried.

* * *

Tino picked up his phone with a long-suffering sigh. "Mathias?"

"I've figured out what I'm going to do!" crowed the Dane.

Muffling a sigh, Tino gritted his teeth and waited for it.

"I'm going to solve Matthew Williams' murder!"

Well, of all the things Tino could picture Mathias being, a detective was not one of them.

"Don't you think that's a little, uh, _insensitive?_"

"Whaddaya mean? I've already called Feliks and he wants to help. And if you and Berwald helped out, well, Berwald could be a really terrifying interrogator and scare the hell out of the criminals, and you could just... help, I guess? I'm gonna call Lukas next. Hey, could you put me onto Berwald?"

Tino cursed internally and called out for his husband, who was... baking, it seemed. "Berwald? Mathias wants to talk to you."

He heard an intelligible mutter from the kitchen, before the Swede stalked out and took the phone. "Wh't is 't?"

Tino took the opportunity to escape; Berwald had a very low tolerance for Mathias. What was Mathias thinking, anyway? He was sure the police had the situation under control. The last thing anyone needed was a hyped-up Mathias and Feliks sneaking around, looking for clues. They'd most likely sabotage the whole murder investigation.

Wait-

_Why_ exactly did Mathias want to investigate? What possible interest would he have in the murder of a nurse, especially when the murder had the gangs all riled up? Any sane man would stay out of the whole business, and Mathias did surprisingly, display some vestige of sanity. What if Mathias did want to sabotage the murder investigation? It would explain some of his strange behaviour for the past few weeks. And come to think of it, Mathias had mentioned going out on the night of Williams' death...

Tino shook his head and decided he'd been reading too many murder mystery novels.

* * *

The call was somewhat unexpected. A private number, of course. Yao picked up the phone and waited for the person on the end of the line to speak first. The voice, although somewhat muffled, was unmistakable.

"Wang?"

"Braginsky," muttered Yao. Technically, the two gangs were at peace, but their bloody past and Braginsky's unpredictable nature set his teeth on edge. And the Williams murder changed everything - who on earth was responsible? Yao didn't really believe Jia Long and Mei were behind it, to be honest. And Kiku wouldn't consider the murder honourable, and Yong Soo was too... oh, whatever he was, he wasn't a killer.

So if it wasn't his gang... who was it?

The answer was on the other end of the line.

"I would like you to consider a business proposal," stated Ivan abruptly.

Yao blinked in surprise. A business proposal? Braginsky's gang dealt in weapons, everybody knew that. So, what was he planning? Yao could do with a weapons deal, but he knew he'd be bound to help Braginsky from then on, and once you got in, you never got out. And he didn't want to be caught up with the Russian now, especially since that gang was undoubtedly the cause of Williams' death.

"Why?" he asked cautiously. Best to play it cool for now.

There was a chuckle on the other end. "Because I like you, Mr. Wang. And we've been enemies for too long, da?"

"Whatever you say," muttered Yao, internally groaning. Oh, he wasn't ready for this. Too much stress, too much police investigation... Yao wished he could go back to the old days.

"You're right. Whatever I say. Wang, you don't trust me. That's the mark of an intelligent man."

What the hell was Braginsky on about?

"Get to the point."

More laughter from the other end. "You will meet my agent at the soccer oval at 2 am tomorrow. Perhaps we can discuss business later."

"I'll send someone."

"No, Wang. I want _you_."

"Why would I walk into a trap as obvious as that?"

"Because it's so obvious. And if you don't turn up, the deal's off. I might offer it to Arthur Kirkland, for all you know."

Yao drew a breath. Shit. Not Kirkland. Anyone but Kirkland.

"I -" he spoke, but there was a beep on the end of the line and Braginsky hung up the phone.

Very calmly, Yao put down the phone and stood up. He stuck his head out of the door and politely asked his secretary to send Kiku Honda up to him. Then, ever so softly, he walked to the window. Clenching his fist, he pulled back and let fly. The window exploded in shards of glass.

Yao took a deep breath. There. Much better. His knuckles were bleeding and sore, but the anger was gone - well, most of it. At least he could ask for Kiku's advice as to what to do. (Although he'd _have_ to go; he knew already that he'd go the second Braginsky said so.)

There was a knock on the door. "Mr. Wang? Are you in here?"

Yao smiled and instantly relaxed. Kiku, his second-in-command. If anyone, he could trust Kiku.

Right?

* * *

Antonio Fernández Carriedo carried a bunch of files in one arm and a little bottle of tomato juice in the other. He walked up six flights of narrow, creaking stairs, humming to himself. Oh, he hoped to get a good night's sleep tonight. He was so _sick_ of getting the damn calls, waking him up at unholy hours. They should really do something about that.

Antonio liked to think of himself as a good man. He paid his employees plenty, volunteered at local fairs, played guitar in the local pub band, was friendly to everyone he met, even Lars, who despised him. He was a firm believer that a smile and a positive attitude could fix anything. People liked Antonio. Kids were drawn to his warm, outgoing nature. He was the sort of man who would be happy in any situation. Lovino had once told him that he 'made the best of things.' Antonio liked to think of it as a compliment.

Of course, Antonio's kindness had gotten him mixed up in something so big, so terrible that he deliberately blocked it out of his thoughts during the day to keep him sane.

At night? Well, as the light was fading, he could hardly keep his mind off it.

Antonio walked along the corridor to his apartment. It was a shabby little place, because he gave his employees far too much pay, but it would do. He, Gilbert and Francis had painted the walls a lime green, not too bright, rather pretty in Antonio's opinion. There was a couch (it smelt faintly of beer, thanks to Gilbert) and a small TV and a little kitchenette. There was a bedroom just large enough to hold a bed and a desk. There was a tiny, tiny bathroom that crammed in a shower, a sink and a toilet, all so ridiculously jammed together that you had to squeeze past the sink to get to the shower; and in order to get to the door, you had to clamber over the toilet. The apartment was not comfortable, or particularly clean. But it was Antonio's. And he was proud.

He tucked the files under the arm holding the tomato juice in order to dig his keys out of his pocket. He stuck the silver key in the lock and turned it, jiggling it around a little as he did so (the door was temperamental). With a firm shove, it opened and Antonio, tired from a long day at the tax office, stumbled into the apartment, putting his files down and taking a swig of tomato juice. _Ahhh_. Much better.

He checked his phone for texts: nothing. Good. He dug behind the back of the couch and pulled out the remote, old and battered with the back missing so the batteries were on the verge of falling out. The TV flickered to life. A recap of the Whales vs Bears game was playing; nothing worth watching, but the background noise made him feel less alone. The dusk was quiet and darkening quickly. Antonio preferred the bright sunlight. He lifted up the tomato juice bottle to take another sip, and that's when he heard the gunshot.

It shattered the peace and quiet instantly. Sure, gunshots weren't exactly uncommon in this part of the city, but it was so sudden and so _close_ that it froze Antonio's blood. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Who were they shooting at? Who was _they_? What was going on? Should he get out of here?

The second gunshot shattered his window.

He flung himself to the floor, shaking. The shot had come from somewhere to his left, the glass tinkling as it hit the ground. They'd found him. They knew, somehow - No. That was impossible. They couldn't... could they? "Hello?" he shouted, fear racing through his veins. "Who's there?"

There was a dreadful silence.

Then Antonio heard the door burst open and he was up, snatching a knife from the kitchen bench and frantically stabbing at thin air - where _were_ they? Where were his attackers? Eyes wide open, he spun around and found his arm forced behind his back, the knife clattering to the floor. "Help!" he screamed, eyes rolling back in terror. "Help me! _Dio_, please, someone help me!" He couldn't see a thing; they'd forced him to the ground and oh _God_, there was a gun to the back of his head and he'd never been so scared before. Never felt this kind of fear before. They put a cloth to his mouth and he realised it was chloroform. For some reason, his thoughts drifted to Lovino Vargas. Tears seemed to melt down his cheeks as he prayed to Jesus, God, Mary, _anyone_ who might listen, but it was too late. His eyes were drifting shut as the chloroform stilled his mind. _I'm so sorry_, he thought, and then -

Blackout.

* * *

**_Dun dun dun!_ Why has Antonio been kidnapped? Any ideas on the murderer?**


End file.
